


don't you dare look back (just keep your eyes on me)

by thedisasternerd



Category: Marvel, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Alice in Wonderland Fusion, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Attempt at Humor, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Crack, Heterochromia, I Blame Tumblr, I had to I'm sorry, M/M, Marvel Cameos, Oops, Sort Of, X-Men Cameos, avengers/x-men crossover of sorts, background charles xavier/erik lehnsherr - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-02-27 20:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18746695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedisasternerd/pseuds/thedisasternerd
Summary: One moment, there's a cat glaring at him, but the next-A man lounges elegantly on the branch. He smirks languidly at Steve as he dangles a hand down, patting Steve on the head. The eyes glittering impishly from behind a domino mask and under a mop of spiky-curly black hair are unmistakably the cat's: one amber and one sapphire.Steve sticks his hand out awkwardly. “Steve Rogers. How d’ya -” he clears his throat, willing away his Brooklyn accent, “How do you do?”OR - The Alice in Wonderland AU that nobody asked for.STARRING:Steve Rogers, our confused hero.Tony Stark, the roguish Knave of Hearts, stealer of tarts and hearts alike, as well as being a part-time cat.Logan, the Man on the Mushroom.Erik Lehnsherr, the King of Hearts who somehow managed to get himself a husband.Charles Xavier, also the King of Hearts and long-suffering (but not really) husband of Erik Lehnsherr.





	don't you dare look back (just keep your eyes on me)

**Author's Note:**

> For my best friend, soulmate, beta and soul sister, chaplin. Love you, punk. Missing you every day :)  
> this whole fic is a mess, but i'm having a lot of fun writing it, and the amazing chaplin had even more fun gleefully cheering me on from california while i sat and glared at the text for my russian GCSEs as it rained outside. Goddammit, UK.  
> this was basically inspired by the weird alice in wonderland appreciation month that was going on in st. petersburg, so naturally it was spun into a stony fic in my head.  
> I vaguely follow the plotline from AIW, the book, but i fucked around a bit (a lot) with the details, because creative licence. Just enjoy playing spot the cameo, i guess.

 Steve sighs, staring despondently at the infuriatingly blank sheet of paper in front of him.

The river flows sluggishly a few feet away, swirling mud and rubbish onto the bank. The water has an unpleasant oily sheen, and the reflection of the monochrome surroundings warps in an unpleasant way. It’s a barely shifted mirror image, but off enough to make Steve’s skin crawl.

Steve considers packing up and trying to finish the project at home. It’s not likely he’ll get inspiration here, in such a polluted, murky part of the city. Alas, there's no landscape to be seen out of the grimy windows in his apartment either, save for a blurry image of a side alley. He kicks a crumpled can that had washed up beside him, unable to make out the twisted logo on the side.

Besides, his apartment feels too empty nowadays. Bucky's gone off to "seek his fortune" halfway across the world, Sam’s gone with his boyfriend, and Peggy long since left for Britain. She was offered a once-in-a-lifetime offer for a place at the Imperial University in London, and she took it.

So now it's just Steve, art school, and the punching bags at the local gym. At least he's got muscles now. He supposes he should be happy about that, but it’s really just a side effect of his sad life.

He’s startled out of his wallowing by flash of bright colour streaking by him, a stark contrast to his otherwise bleak surroundings.

He squints after it, confused.

It's a rabbit. Walking on two legs. In a waistcoat, gloves, and a monocle.

_With neon green fur._

He drops the sketchbook and pelts after it. To be honest, Steve doesn’t really know why, but he’ll do anything to alleviate him from his boredom and accompanying melancholy that come with acknowledging his own existence.

The rabbit doesn't notice him, just keeps running, muttering, “ _I'm gonna be late, fuck, she is gonna be pissed, dammit, why am I always late?”_  and something about the foul language coming out of such a cute creature's mouth amuses Steve. He cracks a smile.  

It weaves through lampposts, people, cars, vanishing momentarily only for its practically glowing ears to appear on the other side of the street.

No one else sees it.

Steve doesn't care, just worms his way through pedestrians who give him looks that vary between perplexed, amused, sympathetic, and affronted as he repeats apologies like a mantra. He forces his way past people he'd usually give a wide berth, all to keep up with an imaginary rabbit. Hallucinations probably aren't a good sign for his mental health, but he keeps running anyway. 

He spots the rabbit again, just to see it disappear down a manhole.

Steve skids to a stop, knocking an woman aside. He rights her immediately, muttering an apology guiltily. She emits a vaguely peeved squawk before screeching in alarm, as he topples right into the hole.

He's not quite sure what's happening, Steve realises faintly. Has he just chased a rabbit in a waistcoat down a manhole? Ugh, and now he's probably in free-fall into the sewers. Not to mention the people outside probably think he’s insane.

_Congratulations, Rogers._

Except, well, it doesn't actually smell like, you know, human waste, and the hole is far too wide and deep to be a manhole.

He hopes.

This is way too weird, he decides firmly. Is he high? Did Bucky leave some weird drugs in his cereal or something? Dusted his morning Weetabix with LSD to "add some zing to your life, come on, Steve, are you allergic to excitement?" Did the bastard set him up with a hooker (with no other explanation needed, other than Steve is “such a prude” and “needs to get laid, like, right now”). Do hookers normally drug their clients? Yes, Steve is aware of the crazy train of thought that is going through his head, no, he doesn’t know where the brakes are. He's an art student, not a train conductor. 

God, why is his life so  _weird_. 

He's probably dreaming, then. Steve grimaced. Didn’t know you could get headaches in dreams. Or regrets.

_What, a bright green rabbit in a waistcoat? Isn’t that literally impossible? Let’s follow it_!

The breath is suddenly knocked out of him as he lands in a soft, slightly crunchy pile of something that is, thankfully, not excrement. He flails, trying to brush it out of his face.

His hand comes away clutching a pile of dead leaves. He holds them up, studying the way the light shines through their veins. He can imagine the collage of colours crisscrossing on his face, marigold and dandelion and dusty red. Squinting up at them, he lets a smile flit across his face, thinking of paint tubes and mixing colours and great, big canvases on great, big easels.

A burst of motion snatches his attention away.

The rabbit's coat-tails have just fluttered around the corner of the paved, lit tunnel by the time he's salvaged most of his dignity and brushed the leaves out of his hair.

The tunnel is wide, the sound of his boots hitting the cobbled floor echoing loudly off the neatly chiselled walls. He loses the rabbit quickly, but it couldn't have gone anywhere - there haven't been any turns.

The passage opens up into a massive room, straight out of one of those European baroque palaces that his art professors practically drool over. The ceiling is ridiculously high, stretching so far up that he almost can't see the glittering gold decorations. The walls are lined with mirrors that glow dimly in the low light emanating from the floating lamps dotted around the massive hall. The floor tinkles under Steve's boots. He glances down to see that it's made out of a strange, shining material, twisted into delicate formations. He treads more carefully after that.

Then, he realises that he's standing on a balcony of sorts. There's a massive, sweeping staircase leading down to the lower levels, which isn’t too long down, defying the grand, fantastical theme of the rest of the place.

The staircase itself is straight out of one of those Disney films that Bucky would put on to “make fun of” (Steve knows that’s a lie, but he knows better than to confront Bucky about his fragile masculinity). It’s massive, marble, and has a bright crimson carpet.

Steve takes a quick look around, and paranoia sets in. Why the heck did he go in here unarmed? Did he learn nothing from the military?

He can't exactly take a bar out of the cast iron railings by the staircase, so he spins in a wild circle, trying to locate something that he could use as a potential weapon. To defend himself, of course. He wouldn’t risk offending anyone in here; he gets the distinct feeling that this place isn’t as it seems.

There's a dustbin lid that he's prepared to swear wasn't there ten seconds ago near one of the mirrors. It's... unconventional, but it'll work. He's not about to analyse why exactly his subconscious brain would give him a dustbin lid for a weapon. Steve jogs over to it and snatches it up, punching it lightly just to check if it will disintegrate.

It doesn't even dent. Good job, subconscious brain. 

There's a strap on the inside, so he carefully slings it onto his back, keeping the end of the leather in his hand. He goes down the stairs, strangely comforted by the metal as it bounces against him.

When he finally reaches the bottom, the floor is completely bare, save for the mosaic decorating its huge expanse. It's slightly disconcerting, and then he realises that there's no way out, and he's not sure how to crawl out of a manhole.

Steve is just starting to panic when he sees the huge, imposing folds of a massive purple curtain. Marshalling his thoughts into a vague sense of order, he strides over to it, steels himself, and jerks it back.

He almost doesn’t notice it at first, but there’s a tiny door set in the wall.

He lies down on the floor, trying to peek through the keyhole, and attempts to push it open. He can see a garden and fountains behind it, but as it is he wouldn’t even be able to fit his head through, much less the rest of his body.

_Dang it._

He sighs, backing away, and then nearly falls over as his back collides with something solid. Well, the dustbin lid does, and he winces at the clang it makes before whipping around.

He breathes a shaky and very loud sigh of relief, then scrambles back when he remembers that that table wasn't there ten seconds ago.

There's a luminescent gold key on top, so he figures that he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. The key is tiny in his fingers, hilariously so, but he knows where it goes as he crouches down and fits it inside the door's keyhole.

It swings open, but his head is still too big to fit through.

He sighs, irritated, and jerks the key out, watching the door shut with a quiet click before turning back to the table and slapping the key down onto it. A bottle rattles dangerously, a glass-on-glass tinkle.

A bottle?

There’s a spherical bottle sitting on the extravagant table, The glass is slightly iridescent, the light of the chandeliers making it glint. The tiny neck's opening is stopped with a plain, waxy cork, and there's a piece of string with a note attached to it looped delicately around the glass. You'd think his subconscious would be more creative, what with him being an artist and all, but it seems teleportation of random objects is going to be a pattern in this weirdly drawn-out dream. 

Steve picks it up, marveling at the way it fits snugly into the palm of his hand, and flips the paper over.

_Drink me._

Before he even knows what he's doing, he's already popped the cork off and is tipping the bottle back. Steve thinks he sees a blue-yellowish flash in the corner of his eye, but he dismisses it as the ridiculously bright tiles playing tricks on his eyes.

It tastes sweet, a bit flowery, like syrup. A shudder goes down his spine as the viscous liquid goes down his throat, and he shuts his eyes briefly. When he opens them, he's staring at the suddenly massive cast iron leg of the table.

This whole dream thing is getting weirder and weirder, he decides as he spins around, assessing the situation. The world seems to have spontaneously become a few hundred times bigger. Or he got smaller, which is more likely, but less fun.

At least he can go through the door now, he realises as he reaches into his pocket for the key.

Well, he would’ve, if he hadn't left the _darn_ _hunk of gold_ up on the _massive_ glass table.

Steve sighs, and glares upwards, the key's massive shadow falling across his face as he squints up at the table. Crawling up the table’s decorated leg is an option, but it's not going to work. Too slippery.

There’s no other option, he supposes. Might as well try it, before the panic sets in.

As he makes his way over to the cast iron pillar (well, skids, because the floor is ridiculously slick at this size) he trips over something - probably his own feet, of course he'd still be clumsy in a dream - and ends up sprawled ungracefully on the shimmering floor. He gets up, and just as he's about to resume the trek towards the table, he sees that darn blue-amber flash of colour, and a shiver crawls up his spine, like he's being watched.

Either he’s finally lost his mind, or someone's playing tricks on him.

“I know-” the words die on his lips, because he's got another little present waiting for him.

A little casket with the words _Eat Me_ in swirly lettering on the lid. Oh well. He’s made so many reckless decisions today, one more can’t hurt. He prises it open to reveal a piece of bread the size of a biscuit, also stamped with _eat me._  

_To hell with it._

* * *

  
After nearly drowning in his _own_ tears, swimming with a host of tiny animals, raiding the Green Rabbit's house (sort of), Steve finds himself in front of a mushroom - which appears to be smoking.

The grass surrounding him is green and alive, so Steve isn't too concerned, but he is sick of being this size. Sure, it puts things into perspective ( _har har_ ), but after running into a spider twice his size (he's not going to be able to get a good night's sleep for a while), he's decided that he's had enough.

And now, there's a mushroom, your typical chestnut mushroom, towering over him and issuing bluish smoke, which looks suspiciously similar to cigarette smoke. And it smells like tobacco.

He backs away, and lo and behold, there's someone sitting on top of the mushroom. Well, sitting is a bit of a stretch - more like languidly lazing around on top and smoking a giant cigar.

Steve vaguely wonders if the mushroom is going to catch on fire.

The man appears to notice Steve, and rolls his eyes. His hair sticks up in tufts at the side of his head, and he sits up, caterpillar like, showing impressive muscles. Steve is more than a little creeped out.

"Need something, bub?"

Steve stares. He's witnessing a smoking, shirtless lumberjack sit on a _mushroom_ , give him a break. 

The man heaves a sigh and rolls his eyes again.

"I asked a question, blondie. You deaf?"

Steve shakes his head, opens his mouth, and then closes it again, hacking to get the smoke out of his lungs.

"Is it," he starts, eyes watering, "Can I get back to normal size?"

The man shrugs, nonchalantly.

"You seem pretty normal sized to me, bub."

"No, I mean six feet rather than Tinkerbell size," Steve snaps, "And it's not like you're particularly tall, either."

The man glares at him.

"Fucking fine," he mutters, "You wanna be a tall fucker? Take a piece out of this mushroom, then walk around to the other side, and take another piece. Got it, kid?"

Steve narrows his eyes at him.

"It's a circle, Mr...?"

"No shit, Sherlock," the man growls, "You think I know? Just fucking do it, I dunno, leave me out of this. And it's Logan. Jus' Logan. Now go fuck yourself."

He settles back down, chewing angrily on his cigar.

Steve stares at Logan, offended and bewildered, but stalks over to the mushroom, ripping a sizeable chunk out of it. He takes a vicious pleasure in seeing Logan yelp and glare at him, then at the hole in his mushroom. Steve smiles beautifically, and walks around to the other side to yank another piece out.

"Fucking Christ!" the man yells, "I get it, I get it, you're angsty. Just go _away_."

Steve flashes another smile at him and moves away, kicking his way through grass that's twice as tall as he is. Once he's a good distance away from Logan and his Mushroom, he cautiously examines the chunks of brown fungus, and decides that a nibble wouldn't hurt.

Famous last words. Or, well, not so famous, but still very much last.

He sniffs at the piece in his right hand, and takes a bite.

Immediately, he's no longer in a forest of grass, but rather one of trees, and behind him is Logan's mushroom, now the size of a car. Logan's still pretty short though, and doesn't even hide his sniff of disdain as he turns away from Steve.

Well then. Steve stuffs the nibbled bit into his right hand pocket, and the other into his left. Just in case.

He starts walking. Sooner rather than later, he should run into some kind of life. He  _hopes_ that he'll run into some sort of life, rather than die here. Alone. In his own mind.

Thank God, he comes across a small clearing in the woods after about ten minutes. The space has a cottage sitting in the middle of it, from which he can hear wailing and singing. 

As soon as he's about to go up to the door and knock, however, a woman with curls of red hair and wide grey-green eyes jogs up to the door, which slams open to reveal a stocky man with dirty blond hair, wearing the same uniform as the woman. They grin easily at each other.

"The Kings invite the Duke to come and play croquet with her today at four," the woman drawls, and the man snorts.

"The Duke accepts the Kings' invitation, and will be present at four to play croquet with them." the man says in a high falsetto, and they both burst into giggles before noticing Steve.

"Um," he manages.

They burst into giggles again, and the woman steps forward to give the man a brief hug before jogging away.

The man looks at Steve, expectant. 

Steve swallows audibly.

"Er," he starts again, "Where am I?"

The man stares at him like he's grown a second head.

"This is the Duke's household," he says slowly, still looking at Steve with evident suspicion, "Haven't you been?"

Steve backs away, just slightly, and the man's gaze narrows, so he stops.

"Um, I don't know, have I?"

The man gives him a look.

"Why are you asking me?" he snaps irritably, "How should I know?"

"No. I- I haven't been, that is."

The man rolls his eyes, and then grins.

"You could've told me sooner, man. C'mon, all citizens have to visit the Duke's household at some point, you know," he squints at Steve, " _Ooh_ , I think he'll like you."

He wiggles his eyebrows. It doesn't help, and Steve freaks out a little more inside. Is this what his subconscious is like? It's a really weird place, and he's sort of maybe terrified of himself now.

"The Duke?" he asks instead.

The man wrinkles his nose, waving his hand somewhat vaguely.

"Nah. Someone... else. I think he's had his eyes on you since you came here. Weirdo." he finishes, a fond sort of smile on his face.

Steve doesn't quite know how to process that information, but that would explain a few things. 

They enter the cottage, and the stench of pepper hits Steve like a wall, making him retch and cough. The man gives him a pitying glance, and leads him down the corridor to a room that's roped off, and seems to be the source of the wailing and general pepperiness. 

Steve peers inside the room, and tries not to recoil.

A man is sprawled in a massive rocking chair, snoring loudly. He's sporting an eye-patch and a long grey beard. Behind him, a sullen woman with black hair and blacker eyeshadow is muttering as she cooks what looks like soup over an open fire. Every so often, she dumps a mountain of pepper in, and the entire room sneezes as one.

There are two toddlers sitting by the man's feet. One is gurgling happily, spinning a toy hammer in his pudgy fist. The other is fast asleep, face scrunched up behind his black bangs as he sneezes violently. Every time he does so, the other child rushes over and frets over him, patting him down and giving him a hug before retreating to swing his hammer.

They're both sporting t-shirts that are far too large for them and read _My name is Pig_.

Speaking of cruelty, there's a black cat sitting in the corner, surveying the room with a sort of laid-back nervousness, its eyes flicking over the toddlers to the cook and then back again. It has one bright blue eye, and one a golden amber, but neither are slitted. Steve can't tell if he's repulsed or captivated by the strangely human eyes. 

Both of which have settled on Steve, and if he didn't know better, he'd say they were twinkling. Mischievously. 

Something inside Steve breaks. He ducks under the rope, and grabs the toddlers, not really comprehending what he's doing. They snuggle into him, snorting softly. With that, he turns around and leaves, the man trailing behind him.

"Just carry on walking," he says, pointing to the left of the cottage, "You'll _probably_ not get lost. Probably."

He disappears, silent, inside. His words aren't particularly comforting, but Steve will take what he gets.

Steve shrugs and begins walking in the direction the man recommended. The toddlers in his arms are snorting and nosing with cold, wet noses at his neck.

He sets the pigs down on the floor, and tries not to sigh as the amble off together, snuffling happily as the rub up against each other-

"Going somewhere?"

Steve yelps in surprise, turning around so fast that he loses his balance and almost steps on a very bushy cat tail.

“Ah, sorry,” he blurts.

The cat tucks its tail over dainty paws, and grins easily at him, - _how is that even possible, again_? - revealing sharp canines. _Canines_ , Steve snorts.

He peers at it, and recognises it as the one from the Duke’s household. It's not the sort of cat you'd forget easily. 

"Miss me?" it purrs, eyes blinking lazily. "By-the-by, thank you for not stepping on the tail. I am quite proud of it. Oh, and, what did you do to the babies? They were the only decent members of that family. I liked them."

"They turned into pigs," Steve says bluntly, not sure of another way to put it. He is also a bit unnerved, what with the talking cat and all.

"How ironic.”

Steve ignores it. He had gotten far too attached to them in the space of five minutes, and he's pretty sure the cat knows.

"Um, how can you talk?" he asks instead and squints suspiciously at the cat's face, somehow getting the distinct impression that it's pouting.

Then it… winks at him? 

He ought to be used to this weirdness by now, but it still throws him.

"Oh, you know," it murmurs, brushing up against his legs, twining its admittedly soft tail between his knees as it pads away and scampers up a tree, "Methods."

Steve frowns up at it. Six foot two or no, the branch is still above his head and he really doesn't like the idea of a grinning, talking cat sitting above him. Isn’t there some sort of animal that jumps on people’s heads from tree branches?

"What methods?" he follows it up stubbornly, swinging himself up so he's only a branch or two under it.

The cat looks at him.

“Please?” he tries. 

It gives a rumbling-purring sigh.

"I wasn’t gonna, but since you asked nicely."

Steve blinks once. Twice.

A man lounges elegantly on the branch. He smirks languidly at Steve as he dangles a hand down, patting Steve on the head. The eyes glittering impishly from behind a domino mask and under a mop of spiky-curly black hair are unmistakably the cat's: one amber and one sapphire.

Steve sticks his hand out awkwardly.

“Steve Rogers. How d’ya -” he clears his throat, willing away his Brooklyn accent, “How do you do?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um, sorry for the impromptu ending, but there will be more! I promise! it's all in the tags...  
> cherik fans, next chapter. i swear.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments much appreciated. They give me hope, they light my creative fire :)  
> Nag me on tumblr @ heretherewillalwaysbedragons and my beta is @ north-char


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